


26.2 miles

by TrenchcoatBaby



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, One Shot, Seattle Marathon 2018, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 17:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16748797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby
Summary: The Seattle Marathon is finally over, and Jensen and Misha need to recover with a salt bath and a long night’s sleep. Separately. Of course.





	26.2 miles

**Author's Note:**

> Welllll guys, this is my first RPF (usually I write Destiel) and it totally snuck up on me. Inspired by true events, obvs, since our boys ran the Seattle Marathon today!! [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) and [WaywardAF67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67) pointed out to me that what happens in this fic could literally...be happening...right now. And the images. THE IMAGES. They are too much.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!!!

Jensen flicked off his backwards cap, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. He wanted a shower, a burger, and a good lay—preferably in that order, but he wasn’t super picky at this point. Almost everyone, including Dee, were downstairs at the hotel bar celebrating all the money they had help raise. Despite all the endorphins and adrenaline pumping in his veins, he was by himself, so that last item on his to-do list would have to wait.

He started a hot shower, remembering at the last minute the article on “contrast showers” that Jason had shared in their group chat. Jensen wasn’t one to be overly cautious—when it came to physical stuff, he usually winged it and things ended up all right—but he had just completed an almost ten-minute-a-mile pace for twenty-six miles straight. Damn. If he was gonna be fit to do any of his own stunts later this week—for the filming of the three hundredth episode, which he was not missing out on, no fucking way—he wanted not to wince every time he had to crouch down or run. He wasn’t twenty-seven anymore.

But in reality, the contrast shower was murder, switching between hot and cold in minute-long intervals. It made him shiver and sweat, nearly simultaneously, and after ten more minutes he felt out of his mind. He supposed repairing his “damaged muscle tissue” was worth it or whatever, so he gritted his teeth and suffered through another five minutes of torture before grabbing a thin hotel towel and drying off.

He went into the bedroom, towel slung low on his hips, where his phone was charging on the nightstand. He gave a quick glance, and—one hundred unread text messages. Jesus. Didn’t his friends have anything better to do? He scrolled through, saved some pictures Ruth and Alaina had taken, then read a private message from Gen. She had left him a small package of local, Seattle epsom salt on the dresser—perfect for a post-marathon bath soak. Score.

The rest of his friends and his wife were enjoying their time downstairs, and he definitely planned on joining them later. But he needed another hour or so just to be alone, so he texted them (“salt bath FTW, see y’all downstairs in a bit”) and drew his bath water. All afternoon he had been swarmed with congratulatory shouts and pats, handed ripe green bananas to aid his aching muscles and bottled water to prevent hydration. He loved his friends, his fans, he really did. But alone in his blissfully empty hotel room, he sighed, stretching the discomfort from his neck and shoulders.

Then he heard a knock on his hotel door.

He grimaced on instinct, knowing it couldn’t be Dee—she had a magnetic card key. The only other person he’d let in right now was already in the Seattle airport, on his way back to Vancouver, which was a damn shame. He hadn’t had any time to congratulate Misha for the nearly two hundred thousand dollars they had collectively raised, mostly thanks to his co-star’s continued advocacy. He was continually amazed with Misha’s ambitious and generous nature. Sappy as it was, he was proud to know and care for someone who was making the world a better place.

Thinking of Misha made him remember to text him soon, maybe during his bath, and check-in. But before all that, he needed to answer the soft and persistent knocking on his door. He knew it was a bad idea to answer the door in his towel—for all he knew, there was a flock of fangirls waiting to take pictures of his junk and share it on Twitter—but he was too tired, and too irritated, to really care. He swore to god, if it was Jared waiting on the other end, holding up a can of shaving cream ready to spray him or some shit, he just might pummel the guy. He cracked the door open and spotted familiarly messy brown hair, blue eyes, and…

“Uh, hey,” he said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Don’t sound too excited,” Misha said dryly. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn to the airport—loose fitting jeans, a heavy sweatshirt and coat. There was still scruff on his face, thick and dark from the weeklong hiatus. Unfortunately, he’d have to shave it all off tomorrow.

“I _am_ excited,” Jensen said, almost too quickly, too eagerly. Misha grinned a little, enjoying watching his squirm. “I just—ya know—thought you were halfway to Canada by now.”

At the mention of his flight, Misha frowned. “Delayed thanks to rain. You’d think airplanes would’ve developed the advanced technology to fly through a little precipitation…” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Think Bob’ll be okay starting late tomorrow?”

Jensen snorted, leaning against his open door. “Not likely. Better hope you get a hail Mary, red-eye flight.”

Misha nodded absently, seeming to be distracted by something else… “Gonna let me in?” His eyes raked over Jensen’s bare torso once, twice, three times, unabashedly seeking. He licked his lips and Jensen tried not to notice, tried not to let it affect him.

“I was just about to take a bath,” he offered weakly, and whether that was an excuse or an invitation, he wasn’t quite sure. He and Misha had messed around a few times, but never when they weren’t on set. It seemed more dangerous to cross any lines when some of their closest friends were just a few floors below, getting hammered on overpriced hotel cocktails and waiting for Jensen to join them.

“Excellent,” Misha said briskly, pulling his rolling suitcase behind him and crossing the threshold. “I was just telling Vic that I deserved a soak after that run.”

“Mish…” The door closed behind them with a thud, the sound final and reverberating. Jensen listened to the latch catch and tried to steady his breathing. Everytime he had been with Misha in the past had been intense and memorable and way more significant than he cared to admit.

“Jen…” Misha’s tone was light and mimicking, almost mocking, as he propped his suitcase on the king-sized bed. He took off his winter coat first, folding it beside his open luggage, then his sweatshirt, then his long-sleeve Random Acts shirt. Jeez, Seattle weather sure as hell didn’t make for sexy strip tease material. Finally he slipped off his shoes, socks, and jeans till he was down to just his boxers. Jensen was shivering at the moment, still dripping wet in his towel and trembling from the dumb cold shower. Misha came to him, placing his solid, warm hands against Jensen’s quivering shoulders.

“You’re freezing,” he commented softly, rubbing the still damp skin with the pads of his fingers. When Jensen shuddered this time, it had nothing to do with the temperature.

“This bath oughta warm me up,” he muttered, and then, deciding something, reached for his cell phone. He pulled up his private text chat with Dee and texted _Misha’s here. That okay?_ Knowing their long history, and even being involved on occasion, Danneel would get the implication. Sure enough, the three-dotted text bubble popped up immediately…and there was her answer. _Oh yeah. Just save me some._ Jensen grinned, sent a thumbs-up emoji, then plopped his phone back on the mattress—forgotten.

“Wanna join me?” he offered, almost shyly. They had traded a few kisses and handjobs in each other’s trailers, sure, but they hadn’t exactly gotten to champagne-and-bubble-bath romance.

“Mmm, well…” Misha chewed his lip dramatically, as if he were deliberating. “You _do_ seem pretty cold, and as a humanitarian, warming you up would be the ethical thing to do.”

“Is that right?” Jensen chuckled, arms at his hips. Misha took a step closer, hands hovering, about to touch. “Well, then you should know—my lips are cold. Like really fucking cold. Anything you can do?”

Flirty banter like this was exactly what had started their relationship. One day they had been two dudes, two unlikely friends, joking around on set. And then one day, they simply hadn’t been joking anymore.

It had been one wild ride.

“Sure I can think of something,” Misha answered suggestively, cupping Jensen’s jaw in his hands. And then he felt it—the graze of stubble across his cheeks, his chin. And then lips against his. Warm and dry, but Misha licked them wet while they were sharing a closed-mouthed kiss, the flick of his tongue coy and quick and lightning fast. Jensen moaned and pulled closer, exploring Misha’s mouth and skimming his lips with the tip of his tongue. Before he knew it he was pushed up against the wall, a generic piece of hotel art shaking against the wall. At first they kissed like they usually did—urgently, passionately, as if anyone could interrupt at any moment. But nobody had a key but Dee, and she was almost definitely making up some excuse at this exact moment to get Jensen out of happy hour. He wanted to take his time with Misha, enjoy an intimacy they rarely experienced at work.

“C’mon,” he said softly, entwining their fingers and leading Misha to the spacious bathroom. Thank fuck they had sprung for the jacuzzi tub, situated like a centerpiece in the middle of the room. With a little maneuvering, it just might fit them both.

He dipped a finger into the water and found it barely tepid. He drained the top half, yanking the lever fully over on the “hot” meter. He gave Misha a quick kiss in passing, then retrieved the salts from where Gen had left them on the dresser. When he returned Misha was fully nude, his boxers discarded on a heap of Jensen’s discarded running clothes. He let his eyes wander—the taut and slightly soft abdomen, the forever messy hair, the thickly muscular thighs. His cock was already half-hard and Jensen admired it fully, never having the opportunity before to get a proper look.

“Like what you see?” Misha was trying for playful, but Jensen could hear the underlying insecurity, the subtle probe for validation. He was more than willing to play along.

“Just…a few…things,” he said casually, eyes flicking down to Misha’s cock and then back up again. They shared a grin, Misha looking more at ease. Jensen bent over, pulling the lever tight and the water off, before stripping his towel in one fluid motion. He climbed into the tub first, scooting to the back. The warmth of the water flooded him, the steam rising his his cheeks. He looked at Misha and winked cheekily. “Coming?”

“Hmm…aren’t you usually the little spoon?” Misha sauntered over, situating himself between Jensen’s spread legs. Once they made sure the water wasn’t going to spill over, he settled backwards, placing the back of his head comfortably on Jensen’s chest.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jensen mumbled into his ear, and Misha chuckled, splashing water on Jensen’s shin with a flick of his finger.

“I _know_ so,” Misha said confidently, and before Jensen could point out they didn’t exactly have time for cuddling on-set, he continued. “Danneel can be...very chatty after a few drinks. You know that.”

“Great,” Jensen said sarcastically, though he didn’t mind in the slightest, “my wife and my boyfriend, conspiring against me.”

“Is that what I am to you?” Misha craned his neck, expression full of genuine curiosity. “Thought I might just be the warm body substitute whenever Dee isn’t on-set.”

“What? Seriously, Mish?” Jensen couldn’t keep from sounding startled—was that honestly what Misha thought of them? “You know it goes…much deeper than that. A helluva lot deeper.”

Misha glanced up at him again, eyes a deep and penetrating blue, face full of such optimism that...fuck it. Jensen reached down and kissed him again, this time sweetly, unhurried, learning the shape and texture of the other man’s lips. His hands began to wander, kneading gentle circles into Misha’s hips until he groaned unexpectedly into their kiss. Jensen pulled back, full of alarm.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“Fine,” Misha said, almost stiffly. He sighed, then added, “You were right—this race truly was a bad idea. I’m sore all over.”

Jensen couldn’t help it, he belly-laughed, shaking them both. “Hey, you’re not gonna get any sympathy from me buddy. This was one hundred percent your idea.”

“I know,” Misha said grumpily. “I just feel so…old and achy right now.”

Jensen considered his options. He could continue needling Misha, as he was known to do, and that would be fine—expected. They might even share a few laughs over it. But he could also be gentler, suppress his instinct to tease and just make Misha feel good after such a long day.

“Lean forward,” he said, and Misha miraculously did just that. He was tense around his shoulders, though, and Jensen pulled his hands out of the water, flicking the stray water droplets from his fingers. Then he framed Misha’s neck with his fingers, adjusting it so it hung heavy and loose. He lathered his hands with the complimentary body wash provided by the hotel, and began massaging Misha’s shoulders. The other man hummed contentedly and Jensen moved lower and lower, till he reached the tight knots of Misha’s lower back.

“Feels good,” Misha slurred, and Jensen smiled and kissed the curve of his bicep—the only nearby part of him void of soap suds.

“You think that’s good…just wait for what I have planned later.” Jensen’s hands were underwater now, massaging the top of Misha’s tightened glutes.

“Ah, Jen…ah…” Misha was shaking now, the rubdown no longer relaxing. Not _exactly_. “Nobody likes a tease.”

Jensen leaned back again and guided the back of Misha’s head down, resting on his chest. He found the shell of the other man’s ear and whispered, “That’s not what Vicki tells me.”

Misha laughed unexpectedly, both of them knowing full well no such conversation had taken place. Though Vicki had suggested quite heavily at the 300th episode event that she wouldn’t be opposed to a threesome, or a foursome…

Misha tried to pry himself from Jensen’s grasp, but the Texan only held him closer, knowing exactly what he wanted to do next. “Lemme take care of you,” he breathed quietly, and Misha seemed tightly-wound at the promise, body full of anticipation. Jensen lathered again with the hotel soap, this time just his right hand, and he bucked his hips up wide—Misha’s fully fleshed erection floating above the surface of the water. He wrapped a tight fist around the other man’s cock and Misha moaned outright, panting from the intensity of Jensen’s newfound, unrestrained attention.

“Fuck, Jen,” he hissed, “ah, fuck…”

“You were amazing today, all tight and sweaty in your spandex.” Jensen caressed the head of Misha’s cock, dark pink and tender, and he wondered suddenly what it would feel like in his mouth. Next time, maybe. “Just wanted to come up behind you and slap that ass of yours.”

They hadn’t ventured into dirty talk just yet, but hell, no time like the present. He halfway expected Misha to shake with amused laughter, but instead, he let out a shaky exhale. “The feeling was mutual, believe me.”

Jensen continued stroking Misha’s shaft in with a tight, concentrated grip, keeping a steady rhythm and not allowing Misha’s orgasm to crest just yet. His left hand, which had been left out of the action up until now, reached around and fondled the other man’s balls lightly. Misha sucked in a breath, harsh and shaking, and Jensen licked the water droplets from his neck.

“I love hearing you talk to reporters…how smart you sound, how passionate.” He increased the speed of his right hand, strokes becoming longer and more hurried, as Misha moaned again. “You’re too much, babe. Always making me wanna bend over and get taken right then and there.”

Despite the ongoing handjob, _that_ seemed to get Misha’s attention. “You wanna bottom?” He sounded incredulous, maybe even excited.

“Thought about it,” Jensen admitted, not knowing where this newfound courage had come from. He supposed he had Misha in a pretty vulnerable spot right now, his dick literally at Jensen’s mercy, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal to lay all his cards on the table. “I’ve imagined a lot of things when it comes to you.”

He went back to kissing his neck, careful not to suck too deeply and leave visible marks. He knew Misha was close from the way he was squirming around in Jensen’s lap, rubbing against his dick. Jensen was fully hard now, a whole litany of fantasies playing through his head on just _how_ to take care of that little problem. Or big problem. Very, very big problem.

“What about you, Mish? Any fantasies?” His voice was husky and deep now, the indirect fondling his cock was receiving making it difficult to speak.

“Oh…oh yeah.” At first Jensen wasn’t sure if that was an answer to his question, or a general statement of approval for what his hand was doing, but then Misha continued. “Wanna…take you into my trailer—”

“Let’s do it in mine, it’s bigger,” Jensen interjected, thinking he was being practical.

“Really?” Misha sounded playfully exasperated, as if he should’ve expected this comment all along. “We’re gonna have a ‘whose is bigger’ trailer contest in _my_ sex fantasy?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to give you a larger amount of square footage to fuck me in.” He twisted his wrist, rubbing his thumb pointedly on the head of Misha’s wet and glistening cock, and the other man visibly shook from the sensation.

“Okay, you’re forgiven. As long as I’m fuck-fucking you, everything else is just s-semantics…sweet Christ, Jensen, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Hmm,” Jensen agreed gently, suggestively, before adding in Misha’s ear, “think this is good, just wait till I get you in my mouth sometime soon.”

His hand was flying fast now, insistent and unyielding, his grasp wet and firm and wild. Misha whined and thrashed, crying Jensen’s name, and then he was coming sticky and thick all over Jensen’s hand. They both leaned backwards—Jensen against the tub, Misha against Jensen—their hearts racing, breath labored. Jensen wanted nothing more than to wash his hand clean, but first, he craned his neck down to look at Misha. He had a sleepy, sated grin on his face and Jensen fought the urge to kiss those lips again and again.

“Let’s go, sleepy head.” He sat up slowly, Misha simply along for the ride. “Maybe you can catch a few hours of sleep before your flight is rescheduled.”

“Mmmm,” Misha hummed in agreement. They stood up, rinsing off and draining the tub. Jensen leapt out, calves burning significantly less than a hour earlier, and tossed Misha a towel.

“What should we do about that?” Misha asked lightly, head tilting down to Jensen’s bobbing erection. “Need any help?”

Jensen only shrugged—his friend, boyfriend, whatever, was clearly exhausted. “I can ignore it. Or maybe deal with it in bed…while you watch.”

“Exhibitionism, huh?” Misha smirked, looking anything but disappointed. “Think I could stay awake long enough to witness that.”

“You better.” Mostly dried off, Jensen wrapped the towel around his hips, knowing he probably wouldn’t put clothes on until Misha had fallen asleep.

“You know what I think we should do before messing around again?” Misha said out of nowhere, leg propped on the outer lip of the bathtub.

“Sleep for two weeks straight?” Jensen suggested, unable to keep the longing out of his voice.

“I was thinking we run another 26.2 miles.” Misha’s smiled was wicked and wide. “You know, I’ve heard there’s a marathon in San Jose that’s promising—”

“No way,” Jensen said firmly, admiring Misha’s body as he stepped gracefully out of the tub. “No fucking way. How many times do I have to tell you—this is a bad idea?”

Misha crowded into his space, shoulders brushing, staring down at his lips. “Once more, maybe.”

Jensen shook his head, chuckled, and leaned forward for another kiss.

 


End file.
